The Violin
by FireOpal
Summary: Sometimes, music is good for healing the soul. Starring Methos, Duncan Macleod and Joe Dawson. Oneshot.


**F/O:** Yes, I know, my last wandering into this fandom was a bit of a disaster _cringe_, but this is better, honest. Katy says so. I think. Anyway, after introducing my good friend Smokey to the new world of Highlanderishness, I wrote this. For anyone who's ever really enjoyed playing a musical instrument, I give you this. If you're that way minded, it could be slash. Could be. Methos/Duncan that is. But then, it could just be Methos being mysterious. This is set after 'Endgame' because I kinda felt like it.  
Warning - none of it's mine, except I want to own the violin.  
Summary - Sometimes, music is good for healing the soul. Starring Methos, Duncan Macleod and Joe Dawson.

* * *

**The Violin.**

Methos meandered down the dark main street as bar signs flickered into and out of life overhead. On his way back from a pleasant afternoon at Joe's, teasing the Scot and generally acting damnably mysterious (oh, so much fun), his veins were humming pleasantly from the alcohol and the even better knowledge that he wouldn't even feel the repercussions the next morning. Sometimes it was worth the Game to be Immortal.

He was passing a small shop just as it was slowly closing for business for the night. Uninterestedly, he glanced into the window, and grinned a polite hello to the old man who was tidying up inside. Eyes sweeping over familiar merchandise, they stopped on one item. All of a sudden, his fingers itched. On an impulse, he entered the shop and hailed the shopkeeper, who happily told him a quite reasonable price. As the item was packaged up and the Old Man handed over Adam Pierson's credit card, the two bantered politely.

"I was lucky to catch you," Methos said. "Looks like you're closing up."

"Ah, a good salesperson never denies a customer," the intelligent gentleman returned lightly, smiling. "Do you play?"

"Oh, once," Methos replied, "a long time ago."

Taking the bag, he thanked the old man, before adding another crumpled note as a tip.

"Thank you sir, but there's no need-"

"Take it." The Old Man insisted, feeling light-hearted. "For good service." Then, purchase in hand, he walked off home, feeling better than he had before.

In the small, dark apartment, Methos tossed off his long coat and propped his sword by the wall. Without even bothering to turn on any of the lights, he pulled off the plastic bag, unzipped the hard case, and pulled out the small object, the shine of wood glinting in the half-light caused by the streetlights outside, and the dying sun.

A violin. Old, but much younger than he was – they never built things to last these days. This was nearly an antique by mortal standards, but to him, it was barely mellow, it's tone still full of the whining of youth. With one graceful movement, he placed the base by his chin, ignoring the chin guard that these young people used. It ruined the sound to be frank. Nimble fingers ringing out the notes, he checked it was in perfect tune by ear, and picked up the bow.

They say some things are like riding a bike; that you never forget. It had been at least the end of the sixteenth century since he'd held something like this, but his fingers found their places, and an unfamiliar tune filtered back into life, the notes sounding in his apartment, held together in music that hadn't been heard for over a hundred years.

Ah, to be Immortal. The most skilled practitioner could not reproduce the sounds he created – the falling of rain in a wordless ballad that mirrored tears of sadness that wept in his song. Seeming more to accompany his mood and the atmosphere of the apartment than to cut through it, he carefully accounted for the young whining tone by adjusting the pitch and quieting the higher notes without missing a beat.

The alcohol was gradually draining out of his system as the Immortal healing instinct took over, but still he played, reluctant to end the hypnotic melody. Beer could wait, just this once.

Even when the buzz of a Presence resounded in the vaults of his music-filled mind, he didn't stop. Why bother? His sword was close at hand, and, judging by the depth and bold ring, he thought he knew who it was already. Odd that they should call at this late hour, but he mentally shrugged, eyes half-lidded as his hands glided in the dance, the steps so well known that they came naturally. All music should be like this – natural, not taken like the words of a speech from a manuscript. Music drawn painfully from it's anchor on the page had a tendency to sound manufactured, but here it was free.

There was a knock on his door. He ignored it. If it was the person he thought it was, then he knew that they knew it would be unlocked. They did. Thankfully he managed to make not too much noise as he entered, seeming to be as caught in the music as the Old Man.

With an inward sigh, he skipped the repeat, added a frill that caught even his heart, and played the final notes. He let the last minor ring into silence before looking up to meet the eyes of Duncan Macleod of the Clan Macleod.

For a long moment there were no words.

Methos was glad about that. It meant that the night wouldn't end with a cheap 'that was good, see you tomorrow' comment.

"You didn't have to stop," the Scot said in a quite tone. Methos shrugged, letting his arm holding the violin drop. For some reason, the moment still wasn't lost; it swirled and morphed, but it was still there, though the music had stopped and words had been spoken.

"I'm uncomfortable playing in public." He replied in a similar tone, not sure if he was joking or not. Duncan smiled.

"Not the concert violinist type then? You didn't look uncomfortable." Macleod returned, moving swiftly between light-hearted humour and honest truth.

"Maybe it's your calming presence." Methos bantered sarcastically, softening it with a smile. His fingers were still itching, so he raised the violin again, and in slight mock reformed his fingers to jump into an old Gaelic tune. Grinning as he felt the rhythm race exhilaratingly through his mind, he kept beat with his foot, though he barely needed to. A jig, as old as the Highlander himself, that set the said-Immortal's fingers tapping as he reclined on the couch. Drawing the short air to an end with a swift chord, he mock-bowed to Macleod's applause.

"Not bad," Duncan joked. "You need to relax a few of the bends though – makes it a bit more authentic."

Rather than show his surprise at the other Immortal's sudden knowledge, he grinned. "So would a kilt. I haven't played for a couple of centuries; my fingers are a bit out of practice."

Duncan shook his head, grinning. "You strings players always say that, as if you lose the knack."

Methos' eyebrow rose. "You play?"

"I messed around with a fiddle when I was younger. Spent a couple of decades with a tin whistle." He shrugged modestly. "It used to be a good way to ensure a good meal."

The Old Man nodded, knowing from personal experience. An unspoken consensus went between them, and he raised the instrument again, this time picking something he knew Macleod would be unfamiliar with. It spoke of a hot sun and dry plains, luscious fruit, sparkling water, of houses made of stone and mud, of people long ago and long dead. It would have seemed strange in any others' hands that this cold British instrument could produce such sound. The very music seemed to be a story just beyond comprehension.

Glancing across at his audience with hooded eyes, the musician built up a rhythm – regular and consistent but flowing with sound. Horse hooves. Then, as the Old Man told the story that was his life, he added the notes and melodies as they came to him – strong and bold for Kronos, sly and deadly for himself, giving each of the Horsemen their own tune. He twisted them together, not just playing the music but also now creating it, trying to explain without words their long connection with each other.

Then the style changed, and Duncan suddenly realised that what he had just started to comprehend was painfully clear. Death and destruction beyond imagining were being told from the point of view of Death, as he gradually came to see what was going on around him. What was turning stale in his growing intelligence and wisdom and change of character.

This was more than just a piece of music. And, as he drew the last notes into the air, somehow, some trick of Methos' story made the last note disappear into silence, whilst still being all around.

No ending yet for that song.

"You?" Macleod asked quietly, thoughtfully.

Methos nodded, before proffering the violin. There was a slight challenge in the gesture, and Macleod took it, swapping places so that he was perched on the edge of the sofa, and Methos sprawled comfortably into his usual position. After a brief period of relaxing his fingers and reacquainting himself with the notes, Duncan eased them into a tune – of the Highlands there could be no doubt. His fingers weren't as sure as Methos' long, pianist digits, and he slipped a few of the notes, but he eventually got back into the rhythm.

His story was one they could both relate to in some degrees – of living as the son of a Highland chief, fun and happy and naïve. Then, with the sudden strokes of a minor chord, he died, almost before the Old Man's eyes, before edging back into life, confusion, fear.

Connor Macleod's melody was very like the man himself, there could be nothing else said. In a short time, the melody was up and running again, though with subtle differences as Duncan Macleod started to learn about who he was, and what was to become of his life. What he was to make of it.

Then, skipping through decades as if they were blades of grass in a field (something that drew a smile to Methos' lips as he saw the irony in the comparison between Macleod's meagre four hundred years, and his own over five thousand), he sometimes wove in others – Amanda, with her playful thievery, Fitzcairn, a man Methos had never had the pleasure to meet but after his own heart in the beverage department – before racing to more recent years and melodies. The soft French of Tessa, Macleod's Great Love, the brash kid attitude of Richie, others, too many to mention.

It was like the story of his whole life. Not, as Methos had shown, a portion of his own, but a woven tapestry. Soon, too soon, the happy French harmony to Macleod's Scottish tune vanished, Richie's mellowed, two new strains entered – a soft twang of Joe's blues background, and a mysterious, haunting melody Methos realised was himself, seen through Duncan's eyes.

Richie's death was a sharp silence in the midst of minutes of frenzied confusion, eventually followed by the recurring, drastically changed motif of Macleod. He was no longer the Highland son, he was no longer the man he had been before killing his only student. And, when Macleod drew to a close, he added Connor's faint tune as a memoriam to the mentor he had taken the life of.

There was silence in the flat.

Duncan coughed and lowered the violin. "It's a good instrument," he commented gruffly, standing to go.

Methos took back the violin thoughtfully. He had lived this long by following his instincts. They were good instincts. And they were screaming at him to stop the Highlander from leaving. Stop this from being a one-off evening they would never mention.

"You know, I always imagined Joe as more of a-" he quickly played out a simple melody that was full of boldness and mystery and jazz and Joe.

Duncan smiled, a smile full of tiredness and relief and pain and happiness. A wry grin. As if he knew exactly what Methos was doing. Maybe he did.

"But then Kronos was missing something," he commented lightly, seeing how the reply would fall.

Methos tensed. He should have known that Macleod, the damned Scot would work it out. Now, how to respond…

He handed back the violin. This time, the melody was strong and bold, the same as before, but the Highlander was obviously delving into the Quickening, and it took a fierce edge – dangerous and ecstatic. For a second, Methos' heart sped up into his mouth, his blood boiling and his stomach sinking.

The Old Man turned away to mask these strange, sudden feelings, and the music came to an abrupt halt.

"I'm sorry – I had no right…" Duncan said softly, his Scottish accent edging through.

"No, no I'm alright." He replied quickly. "It's just part of me I'd rather forget."

"Someone once told me that you should never forget who you are, no matter what that means." Macleod commented. "I told you once that I could never forgive you for what you did. Maybe that's because I'm too young and I wasn't there and I'm not you. But it's not me that has to forgive you, because I know you've changed, and there are too many things in life you do and you regret and you can't changed. Maybe you need to forgive yourself."

There was another silence.

Methos half-turned. "Since when did you get older than the oldest Immortal?"

Duncan just smiled.

"I-," Methos paused. How could one small violin have caused so much? "I guess you've given me something to think about, Duncan."

"What are friends for?" Methos grinned, but his heart wasn't in it. Duncan placed the violin on the sofa and left silently – the quiet click of the door snapping shut the only sound he made.

Methos just stared out at the moonlight.

* * *

"Another beer, Methos?" Duncan asked, offering a bottle from where he was collecting their round. Joe's bar, the scene of too many of their misadventures was refreshingly empty, and the three were free to sit around and relax, knowing they were free to talk. 

"I don't mind if I do," the Immortal replied easily, sprawling across the seat in a way that would make anyone's vertebrae scream in terror. Duncan flicked the caps off with his katana, a move that he promised himself he'd never do (except when very drunk), and passed across the beverage.

Joe watched the two of them under the guise of helping himself to a drink, and wondered if it had anything to do with the Scot's 'top-secret mission', that for some reason required him closing the bar.

He was even more confused when the Highlander got up and fetched his coat. But, judging by Methos' reaction when he uncovered a violin and oddly enough, a tin whistle, it was something to be taking note of. And, probably something momentous.

"You must be kidding, Highlander."

"You said you play for friends," Duncan retorted, grinning. "We're all friends here."

With a sigh they all knew was fake, Methos took the violin Macleod had obviously nicked from his apartment at some point (he made a note to change the locks). Standing, he felt his pose change in response to the ingrained stance of a musician as he placed the violin to his chin.

"What were you thinking, 'Mary had a little lamb'?"

Duncan grinned mischievously. "You're an old guy," ("Duh," muttered Methos.) "…so you're going to know a few tunes. Know this one?"

With that, Duncan launched into a light little ditty, fingers practically flying over the tiny instrument. The sound was clear and tuneful and simple, and unmistakeably Irish. Shaking his head, Methos waited a beat and joined in.

Before long, battling over the tune like an old duet, each added bends and frills of character, until Methos suddenly changed tune. Racing to keep up, Duncan slipped down a note and played on flawlessly.

Joe just watched the two play, and made a mental note to add these new skills to his files. Then, settling down to enjoy the music and the alcohol, he grinned.

Methos changed tune again, playing the introduction to a ballad he knew well. Duncan caught his breath, before launching into the chorus with all the voice of a Celtic singer – rounded and bronzed.

"Fine girl you are!  
You're the girl that I adore,  
And still I live in hope to see

The Holy Ground once more.

Fine girl you are!"

Caught out by this turn of events, Methos changed tune to an instrumental piece, and yet again the Highlander accompanied him with the sweet voice of the tin whistle. Then, carefully, he led Duncan into a different song, and quieted the sound of the violin so that he could sing.

"I wish I was on yonder hill,  
'tis there I'd sit and cry my fill  
'til every tear would run a mill.  
Iss guh day thoo avorneen slawn."

Handling the Gaelic perfectly, he saw Duncan's eyebrow rise.

He smirked.

And everything was as it should be.

* * *

**Lyrics** – 

Duncan's song – _'The Holy Ground', a traditional air taken fromhttp/ www . merryploughboys . com  
_Methos' song_ – 'Siuil A Run', as performed by Clannad._


End file.
